


it's time we danced with the truth

by witching



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Awkward Crush, Background Relationships, Banter, Denial of Feelings, Drinking, Feelings Realization, Fluff, Friendship, Humor, M/M, Oblivious, Pining, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Scheming, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:41:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23167159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witching/pseuds/witching
Summary: oh, god, i'm clean out of air in my lungsit's all goneplayed it so nonchalantit's time we danced with the truthmove alone with the truthwe're sleeping through all the daysi'm acting like i don't seeevery ribbon you used to tie yourself to me// lorde, soberthe research gang goes out for drinks. martin loosens up more than usual. jon pays too much attention to the syntax of things, but also loosens up a little. sasha and tim become long-suffering sounding boards for pent-up emotions, and then they get to scheming.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Jonathan Sims & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Sasha James & Tim Stoker
Comments: 14
Kudos: 201





	it's time we danced with the truth

**Author's Note:**

> i made a [joke on tumblr](https://martindykewood.tumblr.com/post/612709331324092416/spent-like-20-minutes-drawing-this-then-like-15) and then i went to make a post expanding on it but that post turned into this fic in less than 24 hours. i feel great about it.

Tim’s the designated driver tonight, by his own request, because Martin always volunteers to do it and Tim feels bad for him, wants him to be able to have some fun, wants to get him to loosen up a bit. If Martin had protested, if he had said he didn’t want to drink, Tim would have dropped it immediately, but instead Martin just sighed and said, “Fine by me.” So they’re here at the bar, and Tim’s the designated driver, and Martin’s three drinks in and loving it.

Sasha’s stuck to Martin’s side all night - not that she has any _ideas_ , but, well, she’s still mad at Tim for some shitty prank he pulled on Tuesday, so Martin’s her companion for the evening. She doesn’t have anything against Jon, of course; she talks to him on and off, but she prefers to stick around Martin or Tim because they’re, you know, _imposing._ Sasha is smart enough to know that if she hangs on Martin’s arm or sits extra close to Tim, nobody else will bother her.

Jon has a martini. He hates martinis, and he especially hates them here, they always have too much vermouth. But he’s always fancied himself the kind of guy who drinks martinis, and so he keeps trying to acquire the taste. After nursing the drink for over an hour, he gives in, throws the rest of it back in two large gulps and orders a hard cider. Drinks it. Orders another. Drinks that one. Orders another.

Martin and Sasha venture to the bar to ask for some extra napkins, chattering away, and lightweight Jon is only hardly present in the building, and Tim is fixing his hair, and just before Martin and Sasha are out of earshot, Jon hears Martin say, “Oh my gosh, have I never told you about the time I almost got married?” and Sasha says, “No, you haven’t! What?” and then Jon can no longer hear them as they walk further away.

He sits up straighter, frowns, turns to Tim. “Have you ever heard that story?” he asks, in the most casual manner possible. Tim takes a minute to catch up to what’s going on around him, but then he says, “Oh, Martin’s trouble in Brussels? Yeah.” That makes Jon confused and upset for reasons he can’t quite understand in his current state of mind, so he tries not to think about it too hard.

When Martin and Sasha come back, it seems like Martin’s story is just drawing to a close. Sasha’s laughed herself to tears and Martin’s gesticulating wildly, or as wildly as he can with a drink in one hand and a thick stack of napkins in the other. “And I _tried_ to apologize to him,” he’s saying, his voice high and impassioned, “but I don’t speak French _or_ Dutch, and he didn’t speak a _word_ of English!”

That earns a peal of laughter from Sasha, and Jon shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Martin sets the napkins down on the table in front of Jon and Tim without breaking his stride, and he and Sasha continue their conversation by the wall a few feet away, and Jon really doesn’t mean to just - _watch_ them, but that’s what he ends up doing. 

It could be two minutes or forty minutes later when Jon finally snaps out of it. He’s leaning on his hand, his cheek squished up against his knuckles, and he watches Martin throw his head back in laughter, so honest and whole and carefree, and Jon actually _gasps_ , the sound of his own sharp inhale jolting him back into reality. And Tim hears it, too, turns to face him with a look of mild concern.

“Everything alright, Jon?” he asks in that perfect voice, in the specifically Tim tone that tells you he can veer toward gentle care or teasing in a heartbeat, depending on what you need. Jon shakes his head to clear it like an etch-a-sketch, mumbles some flimsy excuse. Tim cocks his head to the side, says, “You sure?”

Let it never be said that Jonathan Sims is a particularly strong character in the face of interrogation. He sighs pathetically, buries his face in his hands, lowers his voice almost below the threshold of audible noise in this environment, and tells Tim: “I think I’m having an identity crisis.” Tim quite heroically does not laugh at that, just purses his lips and asks Jon to elaborate.

Jon flounders for a long moment with his mouth open, trying to come up with anything to explain himself, but all that comes to him is the truth. He sighs again, pinches the bridge of his nose. "I don't want to be alarmist," he says in a slow, measured tone, stumbling slightly over the consonants, "in case it turns out I'm just drunk. But I think... Tim, is Martin cute?"

Tim does laugh at that, because how could he not, even if only for the delightful novelty of hearing Jon say the word _cute_. "Yeah, Jon," he replies easily, not even pausing to think for a second. "Martin's very cute."

"Is he?" Jon asks, the crease between his brows deepening. "Really? You're sure?"

"Cross my heart and hope to die," Tim answers in a grave voice. "How does that translate to an identity crisis?"

"Well, it's just..." Jon hesitates, groans in frustration. "I've never considered it before," he says eventually, "so it's just like, if _Martin_ is _cute_ , then what am I? What are you? The whole world might be different from what I always thought it was!"

Slinging an arm around Jon's shoulders, Tim offers him a winning smile. "Lucky for you, I'm an expert on the subject," he says, "so allow me to explain. Martin has always been cute, for as long as we've known him. You've never noticed it before because you're so uptight and you're kind of a dick. You're noticing it now because _you're_ drunk enough to not be a dick, and _Martin_ is drunk enough to not be self-conscious and try to stifle all the cutest things about him." He stops, glances at Martin, then back at Jon to be sure he's catching all of this very important information. "See that? That little snort-laugh? I've only seen him do that twice in three years. He hates it, always tries to hide it, but it's adorable."

Jon gives a solemn nod. "It is."

"For the record," Tim adds as an afterthought, "he thinks you're cute, too."

"He does?" 

"Yeah. Can't imagine why."

The expected indignant response doesn't come, because Jon is far gone in his thoughts, blown away by these new revelations. He can't explain the swooping feeling in his stomach or the constricting in his chest. He tells himself, he _hopes_ quietly that it's the booze getting to him, that he just needs a glass of water and a lie down and he'll be fine in the morning. Of course, that doesn't answer the question of why it gets worse when he looks at Martin, or hears Martin's name, or thinks about Martin. 

He gets lost for a while, Tim's chatter fading into the background as he remembers all the times he's seen Martin smile and forgotten how to breathe. Why was that, he wonders? Why is it that now, just thinking about it, he's breathless all over again? Why is it that when he's cold, he thinks of Martin before he thinks of a blanket or a jacket? Why is it that he continually commends Martin on peer evaluations, despite his opinions on Martin's professional skills? 

Must be one of those inexplicable glitches in human reason. Jon orders another drink. He's almost looking forward to the hangover.

* * *

Martin's face is hot, flushed with joy and alcohol together. He's long since lost his tie and jacket, undone the top few buttons of his shirt and rolled up his sleeves. Jon seems a bit perturbed at that, but Martin doesn't pay it much mind, he's having a good time and doesn't fancy ruining it by overthinking Jon's opinion of him. He gets enough of that when sober, at work, lying awake at night, on the tube - everywhere, all the time, it feels like. Right now, he's talking to Sasha, and he's enjoying it.

Sober Tim is not a bad guy to be around, but sober Tim surrounded by drunk friends can tend to get a bit grumpy or sanctimonious, depending on his mood. Tonight it seems he's leaning toward the latter, proudly lecturing Jon about something or other while Jon pretends to listen, his eyes glazed over as he stares off into space, nodding occasionally in response to whatever Tim is saying. Martin isn't just standing there staring at Jon, he's not _pathetic_ , but he spares the two of them a look every few minutes while he and Sasha talk several feet away. They are all out together, after all.

Sasha takes a sip of her chardonnay, tips her glass toward Jon and Tim, gives Martin a knowing look. "So, what’s going on there?”

Martin lets out a fully undignified squeak. “What’s doing what where? Nothing! No one!”

“Really,” Sasha drawls, unconvinced. “You haven’t - with _either_ of them?”

“With _Tim?_ No! What?”

“Oh, really? And what about Jon?”

“What about him? Nothing about him. Not him, either.”

Sasha laughs, shaking her head. “Do you mean nothing’s there at all, or just that you haven’t done anything about it yet?”

Gritting his teeth, Martin rolls his eyes at her and clutches his drink so tight he fears the glass might break. “If anything had happened, you’d have heard about it by now.”

A beat of silence passes between them before Martin opens his mouth and starts to splutter an excuse, a retraction, an explanation. “I didn’t - that’s not what I meant - it’s not anything - he wouldn’t, even if I did - and I’m _not_ saying I do, but -”

“But you _do,_ don’t you?” Sasha exclaims, her whole face lighting up. “Holy shit, I love it. I love everything about it. You should go for it, honestly, maybe it would put him in a good mood for once. Oh man, Tim’s going to flip.”

“Tim is _not_ going to flip, because you are _not_ going to tell him!” Martin nearly shouts, before reining himself in and taking a steadying breath. “Please. I - I just, it’s not going anywhere, I _know_ it isn’t, and I don’t want it to become a _thing,_ alright? I’d rather just get over it quietly, by myself, and I would _really_ appreciate if you didn’t try to get involved.”

Raising both her hands in a show of surrender, Sasha presses her lips together in a thin line. “Sure, whatever you say.”

Martin offers her a tight smile, a prim thanks, and changes the subject. While he slowly returns to his bubbly disposition, Sasha takes a look at her phone, types out a text to Tim, hits send just as she receives an incoming message from him.

**_sasha:_ ** _dude martin’s in love w jon_

 **_tim:_ ** _sash you GOTTA hear what jon is saying right now_

 **_sasha:_ ** _what_

 **_tim:_ ** _WAIT REALLY_ _  
_ **_tim:_ ** _Dude. DUDE_

 **_sasha:_ ** _what’s he saying tim_

 **_tim:_ ** _jon’s smitten_ _  
_ **_tim:_ ** _with martin_

 **_sasha:_ ** _shut up_

 **_tim:_ ** _smirtin_ _  
_ **_tim:_ ** _martten?_

 **_sasha:_ ** _this is glorious_ _  
_ **_sasha:_ ** _not your wordplay tho. don’t do that_ _  
_ **_sasha:_ ** _i’m still mad at you btw_

 **_tim:_ ** _smarten_

 **_sasha:_ ** _getting madder by the second_

“Sasha!” Tim shouts from the table, waving her over frantically. She narrows her eyes, tries to convey through a facial expression that she doesn’t want to be suspicious right now, that their play here has to be much subtler than that, but he doesn’t get the message, so she goes over to him, Martin trailing behind her with a look of slight confusion.

“Sasha, listen, I was wondering,” Tim starts, loud and cheesy and obviously acting, banking on the fact that Jon and Martin are both too intoxicated to see through him, “do you want to come back to mine tonight?”

Rolling her eyes at his dramatics, Sasha pretends to balk at the offer. “Timothy, you _know_ I’m still upset with you,” she scolds, hamming it up almost as much as Tim. 

Tim grins, wide and toothy, takes her hand and looks up at her with sorrowful eyes. “In that case, _please_ allow me to make it up to you.”

Stroking her chin with her free hand, Sasha pretends to deliberate on the issue for longer than is entirely necessary. Eventually, she relents, sighs in defeat, says, “Yeah, I suppose.”

“Excellent!” Tim springs up from his seat, tosses a twenty-pound note on the table. “Sorry boys, cab’s on me. See you on Monday!” He drags Sasha out the door by the hand, barely managing to restrain his laughter until they reach the car and he’s positively cackling with glee. “That was gold,” he says breathlessly, wiping a single tear from the corner of his eye. 

“It was alright,” Sasha says unenthusiastically, a wry smile tugging at her lips and giving her away. “Could have used more cooperative planning.” She pauses for a moment as Tim starts the car, turns to him with a very serious look on her face, places a gentle hand on his knee. “Just so you know,” she tells him, “I’m not sleeping with you unless you’re making breakfast in the morning.”

Tim rolls his eyes, clearly pretending to be more put out than he actually is. “And after that, we’ll be good? You’ll forgive me if I make french toast?”

Sasha smiles. “Yeah, Tim, I’ll forgive you if you make french toast.”

* * *

Back in the bar, Jon and Martin are a bit thrown by the abrupt change. Suddenly they’re sitting together and Tim and Sasha are gone, after they’ve both spent all night with Tim and Sasha respectively and not at all with each other. Neither is quite sure what to say or do. 

Jon bites first. “I’d best be getting on soon,” he says half-apologetically, shoving Tim’s money toward Martin. “I’ll take the tube, you can catch a cab, if you’d like.”

Martin blinks in surprise, looking at the money, then up at Jon. “Oh. Are you sure? I mean, you could stay - we could talk - I mean, if you want?” He cringes at his own bumbling awkwardness, but Jon doesn’t say anything, so he forges on: “Or, or, if you want to go, that’s fine too, obviously, but I just mean - I don’t really have any other reason to stay here, so if you’re leaving, I’m leaving too, and we could split a cab, I really don’t mind.”

There’s a pause where Jon tries to think of a good reason to decline the offer and Martin tries to think of something, anything at all, to lift the palpable tone of mutual embarrassment. Unfortunately for both of them, something occurs to Martin, and he proceeds to embarrass himself further. 

“Shit, Jon, don’t you live all the way in - far away,” he says, realizing rather abruptly that it’s probably weird to openly mention that he knows where Jon lives. Jon’s the one who told him, but it was long enough ago that Martin feels self-conscious about remembering. “You can stay at mine if you want?”

More silence, Jon staring wide-eyed in shock, Martin clamping his teeth down on his lip and squeezing his eyes shut tight against the humiliation, and then Jon takes a short breath and makes a few hedging noises, clearly trying just as hard to alleviate the awkward atmosphere. “I don’t know, Martin,” he says with an air of gentle rejection, “I’ve got, erm, got a thing in the morning. I’ll be fine getting home, don’t worry about me.”

Thankfully, Martin is clearheaded enough to hold back the comment on the tip of his tongue, the _I always worry about you_ that threatens to come out from the depths of him. “Alright,” he replies, trying not to sound too let down. “If you’re sure you’re alright.”

His efforts to hide his disappointment are apparently not entirely successful, because Jon gives him a long, pitying look, then shrugs his shoulders. “You know, I think it would be best if we share a cab,” he says. “It’ll be a mess to get home on the tube.”

“Okay,” Martin chirps, brightening visibly, sitting up straighter and smiling. “Okay, yeah! Let’s - that sounds great.”

“And on the way, you can tell me about your trip to Brussels,” Jon teases, and immediately thinks better of his overly familiar tone, mellows a bit and adds, “If you want, I mean.”

Martin flushes dark at the reminder, but gives a sheepish nod. “Sure, Jon,” he says with a laugh and a gentle shake of his head. He stands, phone in hand, and gestures toward the door. “I’ll go call a cab, yeah?”

“Alright,” Jon answers, rising with him. “I’ve got to hit the loo, and I’ll join you in a minute.”

Smiling rather wider than the situation calls for, Martin waves in acknowledgement before making his way out into the cool midnight air to call a cab. He feels a bit dizzy, a bit giddy, a bit unprepared to spend ten minutes in a confined space with Jon, but ultimately satisfied. It’s not a thing, he tells himself, sternly lecturing the butterflies in his stomach, it doesn’t mean anything, it’s just for efficiency’s sake, but still.

Still, he recovered decently from a heap of mortifying social awkwardness. Still, he’s ending the night on a good note. Still, Jon doesn’t hate him.

That’s good enough, Martin thinks, for now.


End file.
